


River As An Adjective

by 8BitSkeleton



Series: If This City is Burning, It's By My Own Hand [2]
Category: Funhaus (Video Blogging RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, FakeHaus, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8BitSkeleton/pseuds/8BitSkeleton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James leaves sometimes. He leaves because he’s restless and looking for a fight, and sparring with Matt will not cut it for him. James leaves and they let him leave without caution.</p><p>Tonight, though. Tonight he calls Bruce at 4 AM and Bruce is brimming with nervousness. He heard gunshots on the other end of the line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	River As An Adjective

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to tinycoe on tumblr because they're awesome and also to gamersnork on tumblr because they thrive off this

James leaves sometimes. It’s not like when Joel leaves because Joel is more like an outdoor cat in that sense. James leaves sometimes because he’s restless and looking for a fight. Bruce has learned that the morning after James leaves, he should look for headlines about buildings gone down in a flash of heat, or of bar brawls ending with four wounded and two in comas.

That’s just how James is. James leaves, James makes a mess, James comes back with a few more kills under his belt because James is allergic to peace and stillness in general. It happens.

When James leaves after dinner, they let him go without caution. He always comes back.

A few hours later, after Bruce has put Sean and Joel to bed and after Bruce has gone to bed himself next to Elyse and Lawrence, a phone call wakes him up. He checks the time and it reads 4:56 AM. Elyse beside Bruce grumbles and turns over into Lawrence’s side. Bruce leaves the bed and picks up the phone, his voice sleep-thick. He asks, _Hello?_ and it’s James. Of course it’s James.

James’ voice sounds breathless in Bruce’s ear, James’ voice is trembling, high on adrenaline. James says, _Hey Bruce!_ And that's when the gunshots start.

 

* * *

 

Bruce drives across the bridge into enemy territory in his fastest car and ignoring speed limits because James is alone in _enemy territory_ with only a pistol and a switchblade to his name. Bruce drives across the bridge at 5 in the morning and skids to a stop where the GPS tells him only for him to peel off again as the bullets make tatters of his car.

He has to bail from the car, send it into the row of rival gang members as a distraction while he tucks and rolls onto the gravel lot across from the bar where James has decided to make his stand. The car crashes into the side of the bar and the bullets stop for a moment, long enough for Bruce to get his bearings and for James to pop out from behind the crate he was using as cover, arms over his head like a Jack-in-the-Box, and he yells, _Bruce! You’re here!_

Bruce rights himself, his forearms raw and dusty, and he hits the ground running, pulling the gun from his waistband and making a beeline for James. He fires off two shots behind them as a pitiful excuse for cover fire and grabs James by the bicep. Hard.

They run until the sun starts to paint the sky lavender, until they can feel no pursuit behind them, however far, and as they reach the bridge, Bruce feels mad. Feels tired. Feels achey. He liked that car.

James beside him is grinning. Fucking _grinning._ Bruce feels mad. James has blood on his brow, a bruise forming on his cheekbone. Bruce hates that he still looks gorgeous. He _liked that car_.

They’re on the bridge, almost to the middle of it, when James remarks, _I hope you insured that car._

Bruce fuckin’—

Bruce is fast and up in James’ face. He grabs James’ shirt by the collar and pushes him back against the metal bridge railing, pushes him so far back, James’ head is parallel to the river water, as if James was laying on it. Bruce is tired. He’s angry. He just wants a shower and sleep. James is shithead. Bruce says as much, says, _You’re a shithead._

A few cars go by behind them. A bird chirps above them. The sunrise reflects on the blood running down Bruce’s forearms, off the gash in James’ head, off the heady glint of James’ eyes. James laughs, smiles wider, says, _Are you mad? You gonna hurt me, Brucie? Gonna make me bleed?_

Bruce pushes in closer, bodies together, jostles James by the grip he holds. Says, _I might._

Bruce realizes he has made a mistake. He should’ve known by the way James looked at him, smiled at him, too much bite, not enough bark. James moves against him, fluidly, and Bruce feels James getting hard from this. From the grip, the threat of pain, the time of night. From the violence they both hold in their clenched fists as it fights to leak out.

James grinds up again, and he feels James surge up, gain some ground in the shock that arrests Bruce.

James rasps out, _Let me get you off._ Bruce lost control of this situation the moment he answered the phone. The moment he met James. The first time he fired a gun.

James strikes, snake in the grass, and he kisses Bruce, all bites and blood and teeth clacking, all vicious and adrenaline and 5 AM burning sunlight. It smells like car exhaust and nasty river water and copper on the bridge, and all Bruce can see is James’ eyes flashing electric, flashing neon, and the sun shining off the water and the blood—

Even if he was given a choice he wouldn’t choose a different way to spend the morning. He grinds up to James as James pants wetly into his mouth, as James’ hands move restless down his back, under his shirt, into the backs of his pants. James kisses sloppily and moves sloppily and begs sloppily as Bruce sets a torturous pace, rubbing in soft circles and resisting James’ pleas of _Faster._ because everything James does is faster. Every aspect of his personality is faster, harder, bigger—he drives fast cars for the thrill of it and crashes fast cars for the rush. Bruce will be damned if James is dictating the pace of this.

James licks his way down Bruce’s throat, down to Bruce’s collarbone, stretching the neck of his shirt out to gain access, and so Bruce moves the hand he was using to fist James’ shirt, moves it to cup the hard outline of James’ dick, and James chokes, moans, shivers. Bruce braces his other arm over James’ shoulder on the bridge railing. Bruce hears James moan into his ear so he asks, _Do you want me to touch you?_

And James says, _Please._

Bruce considers for a moment. He is still annoyed about his car, still pissed off about the situation. He presses the heel of his palm into the clothed head of James’ dick. Bruce says, _I **am** touching you._

James melts against him with a soft-spoken, _God--_

That’s how Bruce can tell James is so far gone. He puts up no fight. Goes lax at Bruce’s touch. Bruce mumbles, _Look at you, whimpering for it. You’re grinding up into my hand like you can’t get enough. Goddamn, baby._

James huffs a breath, meets Bruce’s eyes, and Bruce can see the pleading, can see the surrender. Can see the want. Bruce can’t imagine it feels good, the pressure of his hand. Just this side of too-rough, but James shivers again, furrows his brow and closes his eyes. Maybe if James were someone else, he’d tap out, say _Softer_ , but James is James and Bruce knows that James will take a rough hand over a soft one, a fist to the mouth over a kiss. Has known from the first day he met him.

In the end, James doesn’t tap out but Bruce does, feeling like he’s forfeiting on their unspoken game of chicken. He gets a hand into the waistband of James’ pants and underwear, feels the damp spot of precum leaking through his boxers, and he strokes. The angle is awkward and cramped, but the way James moans loudly, says _Bruce, fuck,_ makes up for it all, and Bruce doesn’t miss the way James bites his bottom lip before he rounds in on Bruce for another kiss, uncoordinated and breathy, doling out bites on every other swipe of his tongue. James says, _Fuck_ , against Bruce’s mouth and Bruce feels his dick pulse as he comes, unraveling slowly. James bites down on Bruce’s lip, draws blood, leaves a gash, makes Bruce hiss. James comes with only a breathy _Fuck_ and a bloody lip.

Bruce pulls back, keeping them flush close, retracting his hand. James looks debauched and gorgeous, painted in the yellow tones of the slowly rising sun, his mouth shining with blood and spit. James catches his breath, looks at Bruce like a lion waiting on a meal. His tongue darts out between his lips, catching any blood on them, tasting the copper-red.

Before Bruce can take a step back, James seizes his hand and brings it up to his mouth. James starts licking his own cum off Bruce’s hand and Bruce has to contain his shiver. Bruce only lets out a soft noise, a feigned protest at James’ actions. His own dick strains against his underwear, and as soon as James finishes on Bruce’s index finger, taking it into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks around it, Bruce’s dick gives an interested twitch. James raises an eyebrow, looks down at Bruce’s crotch. Bruce gulps. James meets Bruce’s eyes, asks, _Oh, is that for me?_

There is no hesitation in James’ stance as he kneels in front of Bruce, hands trailing their way up Bruce’s legs and onto the button and zip of his pants. Bruce is still _mad_ , goddammit. He knows James well enough by now that this gets James’ off more than anything else Bruce has just done. James thrives off shock and awe, thrives off the thrill, the adrenaline, the wrongness of it all. Denying James the opportunity to blow him at 5 AM on a bridge as the cars go by? That would sting James and Bruce knows it.

But goddamn, whoever said self control is a virtue has never had James Willems kneeling in front of them looking up like he knows no other god, no heaven or hell or purgatory other than 5 AM aching, shining, biting love. The kind of love that leaves teeth marks and no survivors.

James presses in close to Bruce’s crotch and inhales and Bruce is gone, head swimming as James gets his pants undone, gets his dick out. James lays Bruce’s cock on his tongue, opening his mouth around it and bringing it down, all the way to the back of his throat. Bruce has never known if James has no gag reflex or if James just enjoys not being able to breathe properly, but he is so grateful. So, _so_ grateful. Bruce’s hand clenches on the warm steel of the bridge, on the back of James’ head as he pushes down farther, bringing James’ nose flush with his lower stomach. James goes, willingly, his throat convulsing against Bruce’s cock, James’ hands scratching lines down Bruce’s back.

Bruce hears a car pass behind him, a horn honking and fading down the road, and it punches a moan out of him. He feels James shiver against his skin, and Bruce watches as James presses the heel of his hand down onto his crotch, where the cum stains have already seeped into his pants. Bruce takes in a shaky breath and asks, _You getting off on this again?_

James slides Bruce’s cock all the way out, only keeps the head of it in his mouth as he looks up, eyes wide and aiming for innocent, blameless.

Bruce smirks, opens his mouth, meaning to make a punchline, but James seems to read his intention and takes his cock all the way back in, opening his throat around it and hollowing out his cheeks. Bruce groans, says, _Fuck_ , says, _Fuck you James,_ says, _Fuck, I’m gonna come._

James starts bobbing his head, letting the hand Bruce fists in his hair control the pace, and Bruce, true to his word, comes down James’ throat and on his lips, and a little on his shirt. He comes so much, his body shivering, his legs almost collapsing, his brain exploding into a cascade of pleasure—

Bruce almost collapses. He leans his hands on the bridge railing and steadies himself, appreciates the way James grabs his thighs to steady him. He hears James chuckle, and Bruce feels the spark of anger that he knows he should hold onto but that his exhausted brain won’t let him keep. Bruce says, _Fuck you, James._ And James laughs louder, the sound of it echoing off the blacktop. Wipes at his mouth with his bloodstained, cumstained, dusty shirt. Doesn’t stand up as he asks, _Hey, do we have to walk the rest of the way?_

Bruce heaves a sigh. A heavy one. A long-suffering one. He pushes off the railing and tucks his dick back into his pants. He feels the spark of anger again, but he’s too tired to hold spite.

Bruce offers James a hand to stand up and watches as James adjusts his half-hard dick. Bruce stares blankly, says, _We’ll call Matt and Adam to come pick us up. I doubt they’ve gone to bed yet._

James smiles, and it seems vicious. Everything he does seems vicious, but Bruce knows it’s the kind of vicious that’s on your side. A favorable vicious that tears your enemies apart but only leaves you with bruises seen in the right light.

James says, _Super! You wanna shower together once we’re home?_

Bruce licks his lips, tastes the copper, blood from the gash James left him. Says, _Fuck. You. James. Seriously, fuck you._

James hums happily, leans in and licks Bruce’s blood, too. Asks, _Should I call Matt or do you want to do the honors?_

Bruce sighs again and reaches into his pocket. Takes out his phone and dials Matt.

In the car on the way back, with Adam and Matt sitting passive in the front two seats, James falls asleep against Bruce’s chest, making soft, sleepy noises as he goes, and Bruce thinks, _Even savage things need sleep,_ before he, too falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumbler](http://shiphaus.co.vu)


End file.
